Gingerbread
by Chess
Summary: Coda to Geminus. GeorgeLee, DH spoilers. It's been months since George has felt like he had a body at all, let alone one he wants to feel with.


In the mornings, Lee makes him tea instead of coffee. Lee himself tends to drink pumpkin juice, and George wonders when Lee became so domestic. It also turns out that somewhere along the line, Lee learned how to be an amazing cook. He cooks every night, and George finds himself eating proper food for the first time in months. As fall gets a little colder, Lee makes gingerbread.

George feels like he's learning all these things he never thought he'd need. It's not true that he was _never_ serious, before, but now his life is nothing _but_ serious, and he lives and breathes and thinks in a completely different way. With Lee, though, it feels as though George has a link to what his life was like before, and maybe that's enough to help him make sense of what his life is now.

At breakfast one morning, life throws him for a new loop, just when he's catching his balance. Lee drops a piece of coffee cake, swears, bends to pick it up. His sweater rides up a little, showing a thin line of skin, and suddenly there are all kinds of mad, stupid synapses firing in George's brain.

He jerks off in the shower, crying and swearing.

It's been months since George has felt like he had a body at all, let alone one he wants to feel with. Even before the fucking war, nothing was ever clear. Fred was with Angelina, and George was . . . What, exactly? Fake-wrestling with Lee a lot more than Fred was, that's for sure. He shakes his head. Sexuality should be the last thing he's worrying about.

He knows what the first thing he should be worrying about is. One night, when Lee is cleaning the flat, George goes up on the roof to think. He sits down in the middle of the roof, disturbing a few small piles of dust.

"Right," he says to the stars. His voice sounds hollow. "I'm sorry, I just don't know if this is ok, and I don't know how I'll ever decide. It's not like I can ask you."

In Diagon Alley below, people keep on talking.

The door to the roof squeaks open. "George?" Lee says. He's wearing a scarves and gloves and carrying an old checked blanket, and George realizes with a shock that it's freezing cold out here.

He looks away. He feels stupid. He hates feeling stupid.

Lee sits down next to him and wraps the blanket around his shoulders. "Star-gazing?"

George almost smiles at the lame attempt at pretending this is anything besides a self-pity vigil. "Yeah," he says, "Guess so."

Lee settles down next to him and looks up. "Neat. I just barely passed astronomy, you know. Mostly thanks to you."  
George lets himself lean against Lee. "Yeah, reckon so. Sorry about that."

"Nah," Lee says, "It was worth it. Just spending time with you was a trip."

There's something strange in his voice which makes _you_ sound as though it's singular rather than plural. George shakes off the feeling.

"Hey," Lee says, surprisingly gently, and George turns to look at him. "Um," Lee says, "I was wondering if . . ." He brings his thumb up to brush George's bottom lip, and George realizes that Lee wasn't just making small talk when he said it was a trip.

"You don't have to do this," he says, feeling numb.

"I've wanted to do this since we were thirteen," Lee says.

George wants to scream. Instead, he kisses Lee.

Lee kisses like everything George has always known about him and everything he's found out about him in the past few weeks. He kisses like Quiddich and cooking, fast and hot and crazy and comforting. George wants to know why the hell they haven't done this sooner.

Lee pulls back. "Wow. I mean, are you ok with this?"

George feels himself grin. "Yeah, I am." He doesn't know why, since he's been panicking about it for days, but suddenly he feels like he knows what he's doing. Lee slides his hand into George's, and they let their heads fall together.

"So," Lee says after a minute, "How about some light?"

George freezes. "I . . ." And all of a sudden, he realizes that he doesn't done magic since Fred died.

Lee seems to realize as well, and he squeezes George's hand quickly. "It's ok, mate," he whispers.

It's not. It won't be. Not for years.

Lee's hand is warm in his. George grits his teeth. They _have_ years. He pulls his wand out, feeling the cold wood under his hand. He isn't sure he remembers how to do this. Lee is silent beside him, and the wind blows his hair into his eyes. He bites his lip and whispers, "_Lumos_."

It takes a second, but the tip of his wand breaks into light, warm and yellow and sharp. Lee squeezes his hand again, and George relaxes against him.


End file.
